


Lov tobakko ash

by pjordha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bridget Jones Diary-esque, Inspired by Bridget Jones's Diary, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:05:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pjordha/pseuds/pjordha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When asked if Sebastian Wilkes is good enough for John, Sherlock's reply is an emphatic "Absolutely not."  Or, John Watson channels Bridget Jones.</p><p>Written for a prompt asking for a John/Sherlock reworking of Bridget Jones' Diary (the film).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lov tobakko ash

**Author's Note:**

> For o0obishieo0o ‘s prompt: _Upon re-watching "Bridget Jone's Diary" for the billionth time I have come to the realisation that I need a re-working of this story but with John as Bridget and Sherlock as Mark Darcy in my life. If someone gets the urge to write this I will give them part of my soul. Bonus cookies if the scene where Bridget runs to Mark in the snow half naked is written_
> 
> Spoilers: Everything before “The Reichenbach Fall”

http://bamfwoj1971.livejournal.com

Security: Private

LJFriends: 0

**Age: Too old / Career: What career? / Nightmares about Afghanistan: 7 out of 7 / Cups of tea: 1 / Jumpers: 4 / Times wished to crawl under bed and never come out: 6 / Entries in public blog made for therapist’s benefit faking how well adjusted I am: 6 / Dating status: Undateable / Chance of something happening to me today: Zilch**

 

It was in a St. Bart’s hallway that it happened; that I, John Watson, was insulted, nearly to my face, for the first time in my adult life.

 

_“Mike, I do not need a flatmate, particularly not one with an alcoholic brother, an intermittent hand tremor, and a silly psychosomatic limp!”_

The shock of being read so thoroughly—and so quickly—was enough to make my jaw drop.  Would have marched out of there straightaway, if hadn’t been in such desperate need for a new place to live…a new atmosphere…a new _anything_.

 

So sucked it up, smiled politely at one Sherlock Holmes—who at least had the decency to look _slightly_ guilty when he realized I'd overheard his outburst—and made a mental note:

 

~221B Baker Street

~potential flatmate is the most rude, arrogant person ever met

~start a private journal

_~~*~~_

**Age: Blegh / Career: Dangerous / Cups of tea: 10 / Jumpers: 9 / Times been in mortal danger because of one SH: 8 / Arguments with SH over his crazy violin playing in the wee hours: 2 / Arguments with chip and pin machine in grocery store: 1…it started it!  / Dating status: Must concentrate on work / Chance of ending up in hospital or morgue today with SH: Unfortunately good**

Just a few weeks ago, was sitting in bedsit by myself, no job, and no prospects.

 

Since then, have gained new, larger flat, pseudo-quasi sometimes paid occupation, and acquired somewhat antisocial flatmate.  Whose sole purpose, it seems, is to run round London, getting himself into mortal danger, which forces me to tag along so he doesn’t get himself killed.  All while using a mind as brilliant as it is cold.

 

Not that it matters to me, but why does Sherlock have to be so rude?  If I didn’t pick up after him, make him tea, or stamp on the floor to get his attention, he wouldn’t even know I was there sometimes.  Rude, rude, rude.  I mean, I don’t care or anything!  We work together—if you call nearly getting killed every other night “work”—and we share a flat and that is all.  Not sure Sherlock even likes people in any way but to deduce them to the point of tears.

 

Doubt he even cares what I think about him. 

 

Still have the public blog, as instructed by “therapist” – Sherlock makes mental air quotes, I can just tell, when he mentions her – but thought I should perhaps do a private one just for myself.  Will try to keep him from discovering it, which will be quite difficult.  After knowing him 48 hours, he’d already figured out my PIN, my IQ score, the age I reached puberty, and my blood type, just by looking at me.  Staring, to be exact.  He’ll stare at me sometimes for what seems like hours.  Other times he doesn’t even speak to me for days.  Odd, that.

 

Am hoping that, if I only update this Livejournal from work, Sherlock won’t ever find out about it.  Fingers crossed.

 

_~~*~~_

**Career: What career? / Cups of tea: 10 / Jumpers: 9 / Times been in mortal danger because of one SH since last entry: 2  / Arguments with SH over his leaving dangerous experiments in the refrigerator for me to almost ingest: 3  / Free, delicious meals at London eateries where owners owe SH favors: 4 / Significant other: Will probably end up male spinster at this point / Chance of ending up in hospital or morgue today with SH: Good**

 

Suppose this will work out, if I don’t kill Sherlock for filling the kitchen with his crazy science experiments.  And for never lifting a finger to help me out around the place.  And for constantly calling me an idiot, in front of the entire Metropolitan Police Service.

 

Of course, he calls everyone an idiot.  Why should I be any different?

 

It’d be nice to be an exception, I suppose.

 

Am clearly not idiot, as am medical doctor!  Couldn’t be idiot if have medical degree!

 

_~~*~~_

**Jumpers: 14 – sale at M &S! / Times been in mortal danger because of SH since last entry: 6 / Times had to fetch SH’s own mobile from his jacket or trousers – whilst he was wearing them! - because the bastard was too “busy” to get it himself: 4 / Times had to give SH stitches: 3 / Nightmares about Afghanistan: 5 out of 7**

****

Have settled into somewhat manageable routine.  Sherlock gets a call, we go running off to crime scenes, Sherlock stares and touches things and uses that amazing brain of his in ways I don’t think anyone else could (save his brother, but that’s another story), we go running round everywhere chasing clues and suspects, we get shot at, I shoot back (sometimes), cases get solved, we end up giggling like schoolgirls whilst standing over dead bodies, and then we come home and it all starts again.  It’s dangerous and stupid and I’ve never had such fun.

 

And then there are the days off.  When there’s no case Sherlock is bored.  And when he’s bored he takes it out on everyone and everything around him: the wall (gunfire), the floor (broken crockery), and most of all, me.  He invades my privacy, he makes a mess, he plays scary shrieking notes on his violin, he texts me at all hours of day and night asking for me to make him tea—all of this which is better than then the alternative, when he ignores me, not speaking at all.  Or worse, when he’s just not around.

 

Not that I care; it just makes me worry when he doesn’t touch base.  It is common courtesy to let one’s flatmate know one isn’t dead in a ditch somewhere after being gone for 24 hours.  Not that Sherlock knows anything about common courtesy.  Or social norms.  Or the solar system.

 

Really must get a real job of some sort.

 

_~~*~~_

_~~*~~_

_~~*~~_

_~~*~~_

_~~*~~_

_~~*~~_

_~~*~~_

**Cups of tea: 867 / Fights with SH: 5 —a slow day / Nightmares about Afghanistan: 4 out of 7 / Nightmares about swimming pools: 2 out of 7 / Career: Looking good! / Chances of going out on real date for the first time in ages: Looking very good!**

 

Right.  Haven’t posted to this Livejournal in several months because have been quite busy. Since last entry, the following has happened:

 

\- Got new _real_ part time job, where boss is right cute lady doctor.

\- Made promising date with cute lady doctor.

\- Had promising date interrupted by the world’s only consulting detective.

\- Nearly got killed (fine), and watched as said date also nearly got killed (not so fine).

\- Watched promising relationship with lady doctor move from flirtation stage to “like a long lost brother, sure you can sleep on the lilo” stage in 1 night.

\- On attempt to move back to flirtation stage, was kidnapped by consulting detective’s nemesis, had explosives strapped to body, was nearly blown to bits, only to have nemesis suddenly change his mind and leave us alive.

\- Solved many interesting, mind bending cases, and even more dull ones.  World’s only consulting detective helped a bit. :-}

\- Was permanently blown off by lady doctor.  Wasn’t a shock.  We’re still friends.

\- Witnessed Sherlock lust after someone for perhaps the first time in his life, deny his attachment, and then sulk in his room for weeks when that person disappeared from his life.

\- Out in the moors on a case, SH admitted— _admitted_ —that I was his one and only friend.  Knew this, of course.  Still, throat may have closed up a bit after that.

\- Dated several ladies.  Some seemed promising…until SH would call, text, or appear on dates.

 

\- Did I mention that the object of SH’s affection was a woman?  “The Woman,” he called her.  Not that it matters.  Just thought I’d mention it.

\- Suppose I should be glad to know that SH has feelings of that sort.  Not that I care.

\- Dated a lady for 11 whole days.  Then she met flatmate.  Broke up with me on day 12.

\- Oh, and “The Woman” just so happened to be a client of The Big Bad Nemesis, who as of today is still at large.  Sherlock couldn’t have a crush on a normal, non-criminal type, could he?

-Did I _also_ mention that not weeks after The Woman disappeared, Mycroft had me tell Sherlock that she'd gotten herself into a witness protection scheme in America…when in reality she'd been killed??  Agonized for quite some time over lying to Sherlock about this woman whom he clearly cared so much about--!!—wanted to spare him the pain of losing her—but, really, how long did he even know her???—but thought he deserved the truth.

-I found out the _real_ truth a week later, when Sherlock had run out of nicotine patches and let slip all manner of interesting secrets in exchange for the emergency cigarettes I kept for him.  He _rescued_ her from execution in Karachi, turns out.  And now she's out in the wind, in hiding, yes, but still able to return at any time.  Here.  Back into Sherlock's life.

 

He flew all the way to Pakistan, saved her from certain death and then came back, and I didn't even know!  I can't get him to go to the sodding grocery store for me!

 

Not that it matters.

 

Can’t think about that now.

 

Because have larger fish to fry at the moment.

 

Was asked out.  Not by lady doctor.  Not by lady.

 

 

 

 

> Text message transcript:
> 
>  
> 
> So, which is it: friend or colleague? – Sebastian Wilkes
> 
>  
> 
> Hello?  Are you trying to contact Sherlock? – JW
> 
>  
> 
> Of course not.  I keep seeing you two are all over the news lately.  Business must be booming, eh? – Sebastian Wilkes
> 
>  
> 
> A little too much press for my taste.  What can we do for you?  Another one of your bankers gone missing?  (Hoping you say yes, we could really do with another 5 figure cheque!) – JW
> 
>  
> 
> A lot of “we”, don’t you think?  One would think you and old Sherlock are an item. – Sebastian Wilkes
> 
>  
> 
> Hardly. – JW
> 
>  
> 
> Glad to hear it. – Sebastian Wilkes
> 
>  
> 
> Excuse me? – JW
> 
>  
> 
> What do you say about having a coffee sometime? – Sebastian Wilkes
> 
>  
> 
> Excuse me? – JW
> 
>  
> 
> Is this how you commonly react when someone chats you up? – Sebastian Wilkes
> 
>  
> 
> Excuse me? – JW

 

Am a bit stunned.  Don’t quite yet know how to respond.  Haven’t been chatted up by a man in quite some time.  Haven’t been chatted up by _anyone_ in quite some time.

 

Must admit.  It’s rather nice.

 

Haven’t had much luck making it last with women since moving into 221B.  Don’t quite know what it is.  I meet them easily enough, but they’re never able to get comfortable with my after hours life.  Specifically, my life with Sherlock.  Can’t say I blame them.  Nearly being killed on a first date, being stood up in restaurants, or being insulted, offended, and dismissed to one’s face by Sherlock Holmes is surely enough to sour one’s interest in dating me.

 

So, Sebastian Wilkes. 

Old school mate of Sherlock’s, condescending, stuck up, banker – bad

Wants to have coffee – not bad

Not likely to piss off after meeting Sherlock, as already knows him – interesting

Has lots of money, can buy many, expensive dinners – very interesting

May have embarrassing uni stories about Sherlock to share with me – Dingdingdingdingding!

 

 

 

> I wouldn’t mind having a coffee. – JW
> 
>  
> 
> Looking forward to it.  Very much. – Sebastian Wilkes

 

 

~*~

 

When got home last night after meeting Sebastian, Sherlock wasn’t even around.  Surely he would have commented on the Skinny Caramel Macchiato on my breath or the giddy spring in my step.  Not that that’s why I went in the first place…

 

_~~*~~_

 

**Age: 39 is the new 29! / Career: Perhaps / Cups of coffee: 2 / Men tackled in London last night, bad leg be damned: 2 / Arguments with SH over his rudeness to other people: 1 / Arguments with SH over his rudeness to me: 5 / Nightmares about Afghanistan: 2 out of 7 /  Significant other: Too soon to tell / Chance of ending up in hospital or morgue tonight with SH: Pretty good!**

 

 

> Text message transcript:
> 
>  
> 
> Coffee went well.  About time we moved on to dinner, don’t you think? – Seb
> 
>  
> 
> Awfully presumptuous of you. – JW
> 
>  
> 
> Or should we just move on to dessert? – Seb
> 
>  
> 
> Cheeky bastard.  If I didn’t know better I’d think you were hitting on me just to wind Sherlock up. – JW
> 
>  
> 
> If you’re fishing for a compliment, all you had to do was ask, Dr. Watson.  For example: You’re quite fit, and wear a woolly jumper like no one’s business. – Seb
> 
>  
> 
> Please stop texting me at work.  I have patients with big scary diseases.  Am very busy and important. :-) – JW
> 
>  
> 
> But of course, Dr. Watson.  Anything you say.
> 
> PS: Liked your arse in those trousers. - Seb

 

And this went on the rest of the day, until I agreed to meet him for dinner two nights hence.  Must remember to wash trousers from last night.

 

~*~

 

Came home to Sherlock on the sofa, typing like a madman on his laptop, not even stopping to address me or acknowledge my existence.  Normal.  Then just as I flopped into my chair with a cup of tea he sighed and pronounced in clipped tones, “' _Liked your arse in those trousers_.’  Really, John.  How vulgar.”

 

I nearly choked on my tongue.  “Wait a sec—you’ve read my Livejournal?”

 

Sherlock finally looked up.  “ _Livejournal_?  Never heard of it.”

 

I took a deep, cleansing breath.  “Then how did you know about the message?”

 

“I hacked your mobile, of course.  Do keep up, John.  I’d hate to think you missed an important text about a case because your mobile was filled up with ‘sextings’ between yourself and my idiotic former classmate.”

 

“How dare…you shouldn’t…that was a private…would you look at me when I yell at you?”

 

“It isn’t important to me with whom you choose to degrade yourself, but such sophomoric behavior reflects poorly on our partnership, don’t you think?  If word were to leak that Dr. John Watson gave it up after only two pints and a nibble on the ear, Miss Sawyer and the rest of London would be on our doorstep in a heartbeat.  Or have I overestimated the legend of ‘three continents Watson’?”

 

Dumbfounded.  Never has Sherlock been this cruel.  Not intentionally.  Not to me.

 

“What the hell do you care what I do in my spare time?” I bit out, finally.  “As long as I’m still here to make you tea and shoot madmen for you…what bloody difference does it make?”

 

“None.  I simply assumed you had better taste.  My mistake.”

 

He went back to his computer, and I went up to my room and did not come out until the morning.

 

Arrogant, cruel, not-knowing-about-solar-system, condescending, rude, snobby…wanker!

 

Know a person is not supposed to hate anyone, but right now it can not be helped.

 

**I hate Sherlock Holmes.  I hate him! HATE HIM!**

 

_~~*~~_

 

**Age: Same / Career: Part time doctor, part time badass – am Batman, aren’t I? / Cups of tea: 1 / Jumpers: 1 – new, short, to show off the wares! / Flatmates seriously wanting to shoot today: 1 / Shared giggles with SH at crime scenes: 4 / Dating status: We’ll see / Chances of dying alone, unmarried and childless, with no one but SH in life: Unsure at moment**

 

We hadn’t spoken all day, which was only strange because I participated in the silence.  Doubt he even noticed.  Bastard.

 

Then we got a call from Lestrade, and it was suddenly as if last night never happened.  We went into “us” mode – rushing to crime scene, Sherlock deducing, bouncing ideas off me, me telling him how brilliant he is, him smiling at that, me smiling back.  It was nice to be back to normal.  We even giggled about the case at the scene, on the cab ride back, and up the stairs into 221B.  So I said something, as I knew he’d never.

 

“So, what is so wrong with Sebastian Wilkes, anyway?”

 

Sherlock froze as he removed his scarf, then cleared his throat and continued removing his outerwear.  “And I was having such a lovely evening.”

 

I slid into my chair smiling.  At least we were talking about it.  “You took his money for the Blind Banker case easily enough.”

 

“It was the bank’s money.  You were the one who was so desperate for a paying job!”

 

“You took Sebastian’s job…for me?”

 

Sherlock flung himself onto the couch, arm thrown dramatically over his eyes.  “The things we do for our fr—colleagues.”

 

My cheeks went a little pink.  “Are we still friends, Sherlock?”  He didn’t say anything, but I thought I could detect movement at the very corner of his pink mouth.  “What you said to me last night was not very friendly.”

 

He turned on his side, his back to me.  “I don’t wish to discuss it, John.”

 

“Well, that’s convenient, isn’t it?”  I waited, but he merely sighed dramatically.  “It’s obvious that you two weren’t the best of friends or anything, but…was there ever a time when you two got on?”

 

“What do you want to hear, John?  That we grew up down the road from each other, families going on holiday together, having birthday parties where we ran round naked in each others’ paddling pools?  Sorry to disappoint.”

 

“Oh.”  I cleared my throat.  A few times.  “Oh.”  And then Sherlock looked over his shoulder, the scowl suddenly turning to a smirk.

 

“John.  You’re picturing me naked in a paddling pool, aren’t you?”

 

“I most absolutely am not.”  _Yes!_

 

Sherlock’s smirk turned to an evil sneer.  “Interesting.”

 

“Fuck off, Sherlock.”  I limped up to my room, my leg suddenly flaring up.  Damn him.

 

_~~*~~_

 

**Age: 23 / Drinks had: 4 / Drinks neeedd: 14 / Dates had: 1 / Dates made: 1 / Rows w/ SH bout dates: 0 – can’t fite if not tallking**

 

Am not drunk.  Clearly are not drunk, bcause am typing pfectly well on lvijournal?

 

Havnt kissd man in quite somme time.  Not sooo bad as thougggt, tho wasn’t wot expected.  Sbastian not having hardd ckechbones or curllz to run fingrs through.  Is tallr than me, thogh, so htatz just like Shh…

 

_~~*~~_

 

**Age: Forever young / Career: King of Doctors – or at least the Grand Duke / Cups of tea: 6 / Arguments with SH about his attitude: 6 / Times kept SH safe since last entry: 3 / Times SH has blown my mind with his brilliance since last entry: 8 / Nightmares about Afghanistan: 2 out of 7 / Significant other: maybe / Chance of ending up in hospital or morgue today with SH: Always good!**

 

Feeling a bit confused lately.  Am enjoying having…dates?...with Sebastian.  We watch rugby matches together, and he’s actually a good cook.  Haven’t had home cooked meals other than Mrs. Hudson’s in a long time.  Am still thinking about the ossobuco from last night.

 

Come to think about it, never did see any dirty pots or pans at his place.  Is it possible that Sebastian is passing off housekeeper’s meals as his own?  Next time I go, must remember to check under his fingernails and in the bin for—

 

Must not deduce date.  Boyfriend.  Possible boyfriend.  Pseudo-quasi-maybe dating partner.

 

And that’s the confusion.  Not sure what Sebastian is; not sure what I want him to be.  Is nice to have attention paid.  Nice to be complimented.  Nice to be appreciated for one’s mind, opinions, and, yes, backside.  Sherlock doesn’t know everything.

 

And speaking of the world’s most rude consulting detective, can’t help wondering why Sherlock won’t talk about Sebastian.  When I bring it up he changes subject.  He’s so good at it that I don’t notice until we’re already at a crime scene that he’s evaded my questions.  He wouldn’t be so good at what he does if he couldn’t outthink lower human beings such as self.

 

Damn.  That’s it.  Will not let flatmate interfere with this burgeoning relati—whatever it is.  Will go to other source for information.  Sherlock always says that—damn!

 

*~*

Need a drink.  Just got home from date with Seb.

 

I offered to help clean up, but he shooed me into living room in front of fire with expensive bottle of wine and glasses.  I asked where he learned to cook and he just said “around.”  When I inquired further, he shut me up with his mouth.  Not quite used to kissing him; it’s nice to be kissed, for sure.  But there’s something missing.  Not sure what, but…can’t think about it.  Won’t think too much.  Sometimes one must feel, not think. 

 

We went to couch and I tried to ask about his work, his day, but he just kept on me.  Can’t deny it’s nice to feel wanted, even if feels a bit…uncomfortable.  Not that he notices.  He’s not too perceptive.  I was tempted to just go with the flow, but the questions kept popping up.

 

“So, were you and Sherlock ever friends in university?”

 

He pulled away from the love bite he was working on my neck and peered at me.  “Why on earth would you be thinking about that now?

 

“Just wondering.”

 

Running a hand through his hair (floppy and straight, not curly, unfortunately), he sat back and refilled both our glasses.  “Did you ask old Sherlock?”

 

“Yes.  And he won’t discuss it.  I know you and your friends all hated him, in general, for how marvelously brilliant he is—which, by the way, is not cool at all—but I get the feeling that something…specific happened to create animosity between you.  Am I wrong?”

 

Sebastian stood and walked over to the fire, his eyes hard, like he was thinking of a way to break terrible news.  He leaned on the mantle, his back wide and stiff to me.  “No, you’re not wrong.  It’s just a bit…embarrassing, really.”  I waited for the look of proud discomfort to leave his face, but it never happened.  “You’re right, you know.  Sherlock and I were friends back in university.  I’m quite certain I was the only real friend he had.  Sure, he drove us all mad with his deducing thing, but I thought it was…interesting.  So I reached out to him…invited him to football matches, visited him in his rooms, that sort of thing.  With my help, I got his nose out of the books and into the bars!  Even a few of the other guys started to like him.  I really thought of him as a true friend.  And then…then I started dating Elizabeth.  She was a bit of a science nerd as well, so I thought nothing of it when Sherlock invited her to the science lab for study.  I never would have thought that he would…well, I trusted him.  I trusted the both of them.”  Sebastian turned his back and guzzled down the rest of his drink.  “So when I went to bring Sherlock some coffee during an all night study session, I thought he’d be in the lab alone.  But he wasn’t alone, after all.”  He turned and looked at me; the hurt in his eyes was evident, even after over ten years.

 

“Sherlock and Elizabeth were—”

 

“On the laboratory counter, next to some burners, in fact.  They were so surprised when I walked in on them that they knocked some experiment over and made a small explosion!  Both got in right trouble for it, but Sherlock with his shrewd tongue and connections talked himself out of it.  Elizabeth wasn’t so lucky.  After she was sent down, she moved back home.  Last I heard she works in science labs again, only cleaning them.  Sad business.”

 

“My God.  I had no idea,” I whispered as he sat next to me.  “And after all that, did Sherlock ever apologize to you?”

 

“Have you ever known Sherlock Holmes to apologize to anyone?” he answered sadly.  I guess he could see how upset I looked, and he scooted closer and laid a small kiss on my chin.  It didn’t help.  “Look, don’t worry about all that, John.  It’s in the past. I know Sherlock is your friend—”

 

“Colleague,” I grunted, and shoved my tongue down his throat.

 

~*~

 

All this was still rolling round in my head when I got home just a bit ago, and found Sherlock doing something odd in the kitchen.  He was making tea.  I watched him silently, waiting for an explanation for this un-Sherlockian behavior.  I wasn’t going to say anything about Sebastian.

 

He handed me a cup of my favorite Earl Grey, and I took it with a polite, “Thank you.  What’s the occasion?  Feeling guilty for some reason, perhaps?”

 

Sherlock flicked his hand at me.  “Of course not.  I merely thought you would appreciate the fragrant tang of the _Citrus bergamia_ to eradicate the taste of Sebastian’s saliva from your mouth.  Do men in their late thirties still ‘make out’ for extended periods of time without moving on to intercourse, or is it only you?”

 

“I…I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

 

“I was simply—”

 

“Don’t!  I’ve had about all I can take of you lately, so do yourself a favor and just shut it!”  My hands were clenched around the mug so tight I thought I might break it.  Sherlock just stared at me.  I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, so I jumped up from my chair to leave before I did something stupid.  “I’m going to bed.”

 

“Excellent idea, John.  You look tired.”

 

I tried to let it go, but I couldn’t.  I _was_ tired, after all.

 

“Right.  Let me tell you how this is going to go.  You are not going to make snide comments about me, my sex life, or my potential sex partners, past, present or future.  In fact, from now on, as far as you’re concerned, I don’t _exist_ below the neck, all right?  I am brain and eyes and ears to you and nothing more, is that understood?”

 

Sherlock looked genuinely confused.  “But John, with your minuscule intellect and equally inadequate senses, what does that leave?”

 

“Well, I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” I tried to stomp away angrily, but my leg wasn’t having it, and I nearly fell right into Sherlock’s side.  “Damn it!”

 

“Easy, John, I’ve got you.”  His hands on my shoulders, propping me up, were almost…tender.  It was odd and new and…quite confusing, especially when his fingers suddenly dug into my jumper.  I could have sworn I felt his fingers on my neck, just for a split second, then they were gone, he was gone just as quickly, clearing his throat as he whispered “Good night, John.”  Dumbstruck, I watched him rush toward his bedroom.

 

Will try to sleep now.  Don’t see it happening any time soon, though.  He’s playing violin again.  Lovely tune…

 

_~~*~~_

 

**Age: Ugh / Career: eh / Cups of tea: 6 / Jumpers: 7 / Men tackled in London today: 2 / Arguments with SH over his rudeness to, well, everyone, including me: 4…so far / Nightmares about Afghanistan: 1 out of 7 / Significant other: hard to tell / Orgasms – self inflicted: 1 / Orgasms – not self inflicted: 2**

Apparently, am no longer tragic lonely, dateless, sexless singleton, but proper boyfriend of bona fide _catch_ —a man with a real job, who wears ties to work, knows earth revolves around sun, and doesn’t think that I’m an idiot.  Hoorah.

 

Quite nice, actually, this being courted thing.  Usually it’s me making the reservations, buying flowers, and making the first moves.  It’s only been a couple of weeks, but am already starting to, well, _like_ this Sebastian.  Could this be…romance?

 

I like going out when it doesn’t involve getting shot at or being kidnapped.

I like eating in restaurants where the owners are fully law-abiding citizens.

I like having conversations that don’t involve murder, national security, or knife wounds.

I quite like being touched by hands that aren’t mine, for a change.

 

And Sebastian isn't half bad.  Totally got him wrong when first met him in the bank all those months ago.  Sure he came off as a tosser, but suspect that was because of his history with Sherlock.

 

Sherlock.  No wonder Seb despises him.  Still can’t quite believe Sherlock would betray a friend—his only friend by the sounds of it—back in university.  But, he was young.  Imagine he was even more maddening than he is now. 

 

Especially now.  First all that business with Ire—The Woman, and now, since Seb and I started out, Sherlock has been even moodier than normal, if possible.  Like last night…

 

Seb and I (been saying that a lot lately, sounds nice!) had just finished having dinner at the trendy place that books weeks in advance (Seb just called up yesterday – benefits of having a boyfriend with some clout with the law-abiding) and turned a corner and nearly walked smack dab into Lestrade and a slew of Met officers.  And Sherlock.

 

“Ah, Dr. Watson.  Thought you weren’t coming,” Lestrade said as he simultaneously slapped me on the back and nodded toward an alleyway roped off with that familiar police tape.  “Took you long enough.  Sherlock’s been here ages already.”

 

I looked at my flatmate, who was too busy eyeing footprints with his magnifying glass to look up at me.  “Is that so?” I answered casually.  “I wasn’t aware there was a new case.  Sherlock?”

 

“It would have wasted too much time trying to track you down,” he carped, standing up and wiping his gloved hands of debris.  “Lestrade, I believe you’ll find the two male suspects hiding in a skip down the street, two blocks over.  One of them is wearing six-inch stilettos.  Size 45.  Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”  Sherlock smiled, but it lacked his usual air of triumph.  He still didn’t look in my direction.  Interesting.

 

“Why didn’t you text me?” I asked as I gingerly placed my hand on the small of Sebastian’s back.  “I’m sure Seb would have understood if I'd had to interrupt our dinner—”

 

“It needn’t concern you, John.  The case is solved.”

 

My hand dropped from Seb’s back heavily, causing him to cross his arms and give me a stern look, which I ignored.  “Sherlock, it could have been dangerous.  You should have alerted me.”

 

“I _am_ able to manage without my blogger,” Sherlock snapped as he shoved his hands in his coat pockets.  “I was fine for years before I had one.”

 

Luckily I had Seb’s arm suddenly round my shoulders to keep me still.  And before I could say anything back I had Seb replying, loudly, “How interesting.  What a gripping life you do lead.”  And then he led me away.  When we reached the corner I looked over my shoulder, but Sherlock wasn’t watching.  Damn him.

 

Was apparently so upset by confrontation that Seb decided I needed to stay at his place last night…

 

…and so had first sleepover.  Was…different.  Nice.  Quite nice.  Could get used to the niceness.  Could get used to someone having my back.  Could get—oh, a text!  Could be a case!

 

 

 

> Text message transcript:
> 
>  
> 
> We found the perps last nite – they were right where Sherlock said they were.  Danger was minimal.  Just thought you should know. –G.Lestrade
> 
>  
> 
> Wasn’t worried.  But thanks. – JW
> 
>  
> 
> Everything ok over in 221B?  None of my business, just thought...you 2 seemed tense last night. – G.Lestrade
> 
>  
> 
> Don’t get me started.  So, any nice juicy murders or anything on the horizon? - JW
> 
>  
> 
> Not as yet.  Was actually quite surprised that Sherlock bothered last night.  When I called him about the case yesterday he said it sounded pedestrian.  But when I told him where it was, he came straightaway.  What was that about? – G.Lestrade
> 
>  
> 
> Haven’t the slightest. – JW

 

Can’t think about this right now.  Have patients to see.  Refuse to wonder if Sherlock took the case last night just so he could spy on my date with Seb.  Nope, will not think about this now.

 

Will think about it later.

_~~*~~_

**Date: Trying to ignore / Age: Unfathomable / Career: eh. / Cups of tea: 5 / Men shot today: 0…so far / Failed attempts at adult conversation with SH without fighting or sulking: 3 / Significant other: Yes! / Chance of having a pleasant birthday for first time in years: Quite good!**

 

Am being terribly unprofessional—again—but have great excuse.  Must update journal now from work because am leaving a bit early.  Not to chase suspects, not to go undercover, not to rescue flatmate from himself…but to prepare for own birthday party!

 

Just an intimate home cooked meal, but should be interesting.  Having it two days early because boyfriend—yes, I said it!—will be out of town on actual day.  Can’t wait to see what happens.

 

Me, Seb, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock.  All having dinner together.  Yes, should be interesting.  Perhaps should bring my gun, just in case.

 

~*~

 

Well, birthday will be typical after all.  Should have known things wouldn’t turn out as planned.

 

In a cab going home from work got a call from Seb.

 

“Hey, babe," I answered cheerfully, "I’m on my way home now.  Are you bringing the wine or shall I?  I mean, I really don’t think I should have to provide the wine at my own birthday dinner—”

 

“John.  I’m sorry to have to do this, but…I’m not going to be able to make your dinner tonight.”  Seb sounded so put out, I nearly felt bad for him.  “There’s this huge meeting early tomorrow that’s just come up and I’ve got to crunch numbers and…I just can’t leave the office tonight.”

 

“Oh.  Well, I understand,” I offered, and then I imagined Sherlock looking at me smugly from beside an empty place setting.  “Are you sure you just can’t pop in for a moment?  Say hello, and then we could both leave—”

 

“No, I can’t just pop in!” he snapped.  I held the mobile away from my ear, a bit stunned.  Then Seb sighed loudly and lowered his voice.  “I’m sorry, mate.  It’s just…you know how the economy is going right now.  The bank is…well, I can’t say much, but it’s possible that we’re being bought out.”

 

“Oh, Seb, I had no idea.”

 

“Right, so…look, I’ll make it up to you, John.  Take you out for a grand night on the town.  Or perhaps we can, er, go on a mini-break.  How does a weekend in Paris for two sound?”

 

Shouldn’t let myself be too disappointed, then.  Paris!  That is, if Sebastian isn’t too busy.  He works so hard.  Ah well, will just have leisurely birthday dinner with landlady and the old ball and chain.

 

Mustn’t call Sherlock that in front of new boyfriend!

 

~*~

 

Always enjoy a home-cooked meal.  Mrs. Hudson made one of her special roasts, and even made me a tiny birthday cake.  Lovely woman.  Wish I’d thought to stop and buy some wine.  Needed it badly…

 

 

“Oh, no, Mrs. Hudson, I couldn’t eat another bite, honestly!”

 

“Now, now, John.  You need your strength, what with all you get up to at all hours of the night!”  I nearly choked on my tea, until Mrs. Hudson explained, “Sherlock has you running round the city so much, you’re bound to have a healthy appetite.  If you could only get Sherlock to eat more regularly!”  I glanced at Sherlock, who'd tasted everything once and was simply sitting there pouting, moving the food around his plate.  “If I ever get either of you two married off, you’ll have to do a bit better at pretending you like home cooking!”  Eyes wide, Sherlock dropped his fork and sulked.  I nearly laughed.

 

“Think that’ll happen anytime soon, do you?” I asked her.

 

“Who knows?  Of course there’s something to be said for staying single, I suppose.  So many men are staying single these days.”  Mrs. Hudson didn’t seem to notice the awkwardness between Sherlock and me…or she didn’t care to acknowledge it.  “Why are there so many single men in their 30s these days?”

 

“Don’t really know,” I answered, eyeing the increasingly less comfortable position Sherlock held on his chair.  “Could be people are afraid of commitment.  Or that the divorce rate is so high.  Sherlock, is it one in four marriages that ends in divorce now or one in three?”

 

Sherlock turned and looked at me as if I’d grown a second head.  “Why on earth would you think that I would care?”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

Mrs. Hudson patted my arm and said, “At least you’re on the right track, dear.  Got yourself someone special, in all.”  I couldn’t help turning a little pink at Mrs. Hudson’s words; Sherlock merely grumbled.  “I’m sorry your new friend couldn’t make it tonight, though.  What was his name again?  Shawn?  Seth?”

 

“Sebastian Wilkes,” answered Sherlock, and followed it with a sneer-filled crack of his jaw.

 

“Oh. Is he a friend of yours, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock shivered as if someone had told him that all the serial killers in the world turned themselves in.  “Absolutely not.”

 

Mrs. Hudson smiled at me, like she knew something I didn’t.  “Well, I hope he's good enough for our young doctor.”

 

“I think I can say with total confidence _absolutely not_ ,” Sherlocksnapped, looking directly at me.  I met his gaze with restrained anger.  I was not going to get into an argument at my birthday party.

 

“Well, I'm sure he'd say the same about you,” I told him under my breath once Mrs. Hudson had got up to clear the dishes, “given your past behaviour.”

 

His eyes narrowed.  “Pardon?”

 

“I think you _know_ what I mean, Sherlock.”

 

I waited for realization to hit, for him to acknowledge that I knew what he’d done to Sebastian all those years ago.  I wanted him to know that _I_ knew.  I wanted him to explain himself.  But all he gave me was a condescending sniff and, “John, if I knew what you meant, why would I say ‘pardon?’  You know how I hate to repeat myself!”

 

“Right!  Thank you so much for dinner, Mrs. Hudson, but I must be off to see my...good night!”  Normally I would have offered to help with the dishes, but I was afraid if I stayed in the flat any longer I would end up suffocating my flatmate with frosting.

 

Think I will surprise Seb at the bank with a slice of cake.  Happy birthday to me!

 

_~~*~~_

 

**Age: Old / State of mind: Frazzled / Dating status: Humiliated / Chances of dying alone, unmarried and childless, with no one in life: Increasing exponentially**

 

Can’t quite believe what just happened.

 

Although the bank was technically closed, I was able to talk the security guard into letting me go up to Seb’s office.  No wonder the acrobat was able to get into the building so easily.

 

I was expecting lots of hubbub, what with the big meeting Seb said they were preparing for tomorrow.  There were a few traders about, but the place was mostly quiet.  His office door was shut, and I could hear him on the phone.  I started to knock, but thought what the hell; I’ll just sneak in and surprise him with cake and a kiss while he’s on a business call.  Won’t he be glad to see me, I thought.

 

If my military training and life with Sherlock have taught me anything, it’s how to sneak up on people.

 

“Yes.  Yes, sir.  Everything is going as planned.  Yes, I’m in complete control of the situation.  Yes, sir.  No, I won’t disappoint you, sir," Seb was imploring into his mobile.  "I assure you...Watson is as good as mine.”

 

I thought I might explode, but I went right into stealth mode, pushing aside the rage and confusion in favor of pushing Seb’s door open just enough so I could see inside.  Seb’s chair was turned so I could only see the back of his head.  He was on his mobile, chair tilted back, his free arm squeezing the back of his neck.  I held my breath and took a step inside.  He didn’t even notice.

 

“Yes, I’ll have him away from Sherlock Holmes in a matter of days, I suspect,” he boasted, still unaware of me standing fully inside his office, my eyes burning, my chest cold.  “Seducing John Watson was much easier than I expected.  If sad old Sherlock ever paid him any attention, I suspect I’d have had a much harder time getting him to come around.”  By then my blood was boiling, but I kept myself still.  “Now, I’ve done everything you’ve told me to…and I haven’t gone to the police, so…may I ask when I’ll get my money?”

 

“You miserable bastard,” I growled, the wrapped piece of cake shaking in my hand as Seb froze and a familiar high pitched cackle rose up from his mobile loud enough for me to hear at the doorway.  “You worthless piece of—”

 

“Wait, let me explain!”  Sebastian’s chair turned, and it was only then that I noticed the young half naked man who’d been hard at work in Seb’s lap.  The laughter from the phone came even harder, as if Seb had put it on speaker just to further humiliate me.  “It’s not what you think!”

 

“Give me the phone,” I ordered, barely looking at the hard-bodied young man as he jumped to his feet and wiped his overworked jaw.  Seb tossed it to me, but I really didn’t expect Moriarty to still be on the line.

 

“Oh, dear.  To have your heart broken again and again.  Don’t you just want to _die_?”  As I listened to him laugh triumphantly, I set about rummaging in my jacket for my own phone, hoping I could text Mycroft quickly enough so we could start a trace.  But Moriarty was too fast, again.  “You needn’t bother trying to find me, Dr. Watson.  I’ll be in touch with you soon enough…with the _both_ of you.”

 

“You stay the hell away from Sherlock!” I spat at the phone.

 

“Oh, better watch what you say.  Your boyfriend might get jealous!” Moriarty cackled before the line went dead.  I stared at the phone, mostly so I wouldn’t have to look at the two other men in the room, in case I did something rash.  Too bad I left my gun at home.

 

“I can explain this whole thing,” Seb finally mumbled, running his fingers through his hair, then looking down and zipping himself up.  I stared at his hands fumbling at his fly.  “You’ve got to see it from my side.  Please, John!”

 

The half naked boy toy scoffed.  “John?  This is _John_?”  I glanced at him: late 20s, perfect hair, waxed and plucked and faux-tanned to perfection, and I could just make out the faintest hint of exotic spices coming from him.  So now I knew where all those great dinners came from.

 

“You’re fucking your cook, Sebastian?” I hissed.

 

“Try _personal chef_ ,” the twink snapped, then looked me up and down, snickered, and said to Seb in an American accent, “I thought you said he was _tall_.”

 

~*~

 

Want to crawl into hole and never come out, but not before do the following:

\- ask Sarah if I can crash at her place tonight

\- text Sherlock to keep my gun at all times

\- call Mycroft

 

_~~*~~_

 

**Age: Older and wiser / Job: Professional Horse's Rear End / Drinks: Not enough in the world / Significant other: Misery / Fights with SH about anything: None yet**

 

Can’t believe am actually grateful for colds, rashes, and STDs.

 

Have been so busy at the clinic today have not had much time to dwell on…things.  Sebastian has been blowing up my mobile so much I haven’t bothered to answer it anymore.  Which also means no one else can get in touch with me, but will chance it.  Sherlock knows where to find me.

Am biggest coward in the world, I know, but I just can’t face him.  He’ll read everything that happened just by looking at me, and I just can’t deal with that yet.  He’s seen me at all levels of angst and depression, but never full on humiliation.  He already thinks I’m a moron; what will he think of me now?

 

He’ll probably gloat, give me that “I told you so” face of his for the next five years.  Why didn’t I just listen to him?  He’s always right, after all.  Damn.  Wonder if he’s ok.

 

Of course he’s ok.

 

Will not check mobile.  Will not check messages.

 

Maybe just the emails…in case there’s an emergency, or Mrs. Hudson needs—

 

Oh!  A text from Lestrade!

 

~*~

 

Got back a little while ago.  Can’t sleep, so might as well update the Livejournal.

 

When I got to the address Lestrade sent, Sherlock was there, screaming, arms flailing, bemoaning the sad state of human intelligence and begging the gods for a cigarette.  Typical Thursday.

 

“Finally,” Lestrade bellowed when I walked in.  “Would you please decipher your friend’s ranting and ravings into something that we mere mortals can comprehend?”  I offered the room my best fake smile.  Sherlock looked at me, and did a barely detectable double-take.

 

“Oh, John.  You look wretched.  Must be because you—”

 

“I don’t…want to hear it, Sherlock.  The London Metropolitan Police Service doesn’t need to hear about my personal life,” I tried to laugh, barely able to meet my flatmate’s eye. 

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  “I was going to say because you spent the night on one of those ridiculous air mattresses.  Why don’t you go home and get a good night’s sleep?  This case can go on without you.”

 

“I don’t want to go home!”  _Damn_.  “I mean…I’m fine.  I’m tired, yes, but…I’d really like to work this right now.”  I tried not to look too pathetic, but what would Sherlock know about that?  I pointed at a body on the ground; face up, look of complete surprise on the poor sod’s face.  Could so relate.  “So, what’s the cause of death?  Knife would?  Poisoning?”

 

Sherlock came closer to me, declared something about the deceased’s wife and his mistress teaming up to do him in, and then leaned closer and asked so only I could hear, “Are you quite all right?”

 

It was nice to know, after all that happened, that I could still be pleasantly surprised.  Our eyes met briefly before turning back to the corpse.  And we stayed like that, side by side, as Sherlock described for everyone in minute detail how the recently deceased came to his untimely end, how he spent the last forty-eight hours of his life, and where exactly the police would find his killers.

 

“If you hurry,” he proclaimed, “you might catch them _in flagrante_ – I’d say his mistress and his wife have been lovers at least 3 weeks.  By the look of the bruises about this man’s face, I’d say that at least one of them wears a double F cup.”

 

“Right, let’s go, boys!” Lestrade announced, the male detectives happily following him in pursuit.  “Sherlock, John, always a pleasure.”  I watched Lestrade and the others dashing away, and suddenly I was laughing so hard it was all I could do to not burst into tears.

 

“I suppose it would be hypocritical of me to suggest how inappropriate it is of you to be giggling like a child over yet _another_ dead body?”

 

When I could finally catch my breath I answered, “Yes, it would,” and then started cackling all over again.  This time, Sherlock joined me, and it was the nicest sound I’d heard in ages.

 

“Oh, thank you, Sherlock.  I really needed that.”  I reached out as if to slap him on the back, but stopped in my tracks when he uttered, “You needn’t have left me your weapon, John.  I’m quite capable of handling myself, and if Moriarty came after me I’m sure I’d have been alerted by the plethora of men shrouding my every step for the past 24 hours.  You do know that I’ll never live this down, don’t you?  Mycroft will be insufferable—more insufferable—for quite some time thanks to you.”

 

I sighed heavily, but still chuckled.  Good old Sherlock.  “Sorry that I was worried about you.  It won’t happen again.”

 

“Don’t be so dramatic, of course it will happen again,” he sighed as he stepped over the body and started toward the road.  I was next to him right away, as always.  “Did you think I’d be safer if you stayed away from the flat, or were you making yet another fruitless attempt at Ms. Sawyer’s affections?”

 

I stopped in my tracks; he actually stopped as well.  “Mycroft didn’t tell you what happened?”

 

He cleared his throat like he was annoyed.  “You know I don’t ask him anything.  I want _you_ to tell me what happened…if there’s anything to tell.”

 

Why those words struck something in me, I don’t know.  “Of course I should have…well, that doesn’t matter now.  What matters is that Moriarty is back and he’s planning something and we need to make sure you’re safe and I’m just the biggest idiot that’s ever walked this planet!”

 

“No, no, not the biggest at all,” Sherlock replied, and I knew he actually didn’t mean it to sound like an insult that time.  Maybe he never did?  He stuffed his hands down into his coat, even though it was fairly warm.  “So, er…”  If he were anyone else, I’d have thought he was lost for words momentarily.  “I don’t mean to pry…well, scratch that, I _do_ mean to pry, but I don’t mean to—just tell me: You and Sebastian.  Is that over and done, then?”

 

I wanted to melt into the pavement and dribble into the closest gutter.  But I couldn’t; something told me if I did Sherlock would piece me back together and then berate me for not watching my parts better.  “You really don’t know.”

 

“What, that Moriarty prostituted Sebastian Wilkes, who took advantage of your trusting nature and desire for physical and emotional intimacy in hopes of ruining our partnership so that Moriarty could either kill or corrupt me?  I knew the moment I got your text and Mycroft sent his goons to look after me.”  Wanted to die, right there.  Had hoped that it wouldn’t be so obvious, but must have been wrong.  Did everyone know but me?  Were Seb’s intentions written all over his face?  “John, really.  Don’t blame yourself.  You couldn’t have known he was lying to you.”

 

“If I were you, I’d have known.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes softened, and he grabbed my shoulder, just for a moment.  “If you were me, he wouldn’t have tried.  One needs a heart to fall in love, remember?”

 

“Don’t say that.  You have a heart.  I know because I’ve seen it broken this past year,” I murmured.

 

“John.  Don’t confuse unparalleled respect and admiration for love.  You developed true feelings for that bastard.  The Woman and I…it is nothing like that.  It never _will_ be."  His grip on my shoulder tightened.  "She can't break my heart because it is otherwise…engaged.”

 

!!!??!!!

 

I watched him smile sadly at me then step away to hail a cab.  Confusion addling my head, I turned around and stated, “To answer your question: yes, Seb and I are through.  And for the record…I was never in love with him.”

 

Sherlock opened the cab door, yelled our address to the driver, looked back at me and murmured, “I’m delighted to hear it,” before swooshing into the car in a poof of coat and curls.  Entrances or exits, he always makes them look wonderful.

 

The cab ride home was unusually silent.  Thought for sure Sherlock would tell me I would attract flies with my mouth all surprised and agape.  Kept turning over in my head what he'd said:

He was happy that Seb used me?  No.

He was happy that I broke up with Seb?

 

_He was happy that I'm not in love with Sebastian._

 

Didn’t know quite what to make of that, but I couldn’t shake it from my head, even as we arrived home, Sherlock sneering at Mycroft’s men making a final sweep of the flat before the night shift began outside.

 

“Damn him.  Moriarty will never make a move with all this security.  It’d be too boring,” he quipped.

 

“You sound disappointed,” I sighed as I flopped into my chair.  Missed it while I was at Sarah's.  Missed lots of things in this place.

 

“The quicker he shows himself, the quicker we can catch him and put him down.”  Sherlock adjusted the skull on the mantelpiece so it was looking away from him.  Curious.  “Hopefully it’ll happen when no one official is watching, so I can make him pay for what he’s done…to you.”

 

“You mean kidnapping me, strapping explosives on me and nearly killing us both?”

 

Sherlock wanted badly to roll his eyes at me, I could tell.  “No, John, for hiring that dullard Sebastian to get into your—”

 

“Yes, please, I get it.”

 

Sherlock started to pace.  Curious again.  “Don’t blame yourself, John.  How could you have known?  Sebastian is witless, but Moriarty knew exactly how to get to you.  You were practically powerless against such a diabolical mastermind.  What with your childish need for validation of your masculinity and pedestrian looks—”

 

“And here we go!”  I stood up, my throbbing leg be damned.  “What is it with you, Sherlock?  I mean, you seem to go out of your way to try to make me feel like a complete idiot every hour of every day…and you really needn't bother.  Compared to you, I already feel like an idiot most of the time anyway—with or without a chip and pin machine!”  Sherlock smiled; I could see the biting retorts threatening to come, but I’d had it.  “Just forget it.  Goodnight.”

 

Before I could leave he stopped me with, “John, wait!  I, er…I don’t think you’re an idiot at all.  There are elements of the ridiculous about you, but then with your rudimentary intelligence, it is to be expected.  Your sister is…interesting, and you’re appallingly bad at dealing with automated machinery.”

 

“If this is your attempt at making me feel better—”

 

“I know when Mike introduced us at St. Barts I was unforgivably rude,” he exclaimed, eyes squeezed tight, like it pained him to admit such a thing.  “Apparently I’m _always_ rude, so you shouldn’t have taken it personally.”  And then Sherlock came closer, close enough that I could see an unfamiliar emotion clouding his face.  Was he…nervous?  “What I’m trying to—what I _mean_ to say is—despite appearances, and your mental and physical limitations, and your lack of fashion sense, and your short stature…I like you.”

 

Excuse me?  “Right.  Apart from the alcoholic sister and our incessant arguments and my bum leg—“

 

“No. I like you very much.”  Sherlock came closer.  His eyes were violent with intent.  _Oh my God_.  “Just as you are.”

 

Tongue tied is not the phrase.  I was brain tied.  Must have looked like one of those rubber toys whose eyes pop out when you squeeze them.  What the _what_?

 

Before I could get my brain and my thick tongue around a response, Sherlock’s mobile shrieked from his jacket thrown across the couch.  He twirled away from me before I could see if that was truly a blush in his cheeks.

 

“Ah, Lestrade has found the two lecherous ladies,” Sherlock announced as he texted with one hand and pulled his coat on with the other.  “He wants me to interview them before his officers start requesting free shows.”

 

“Fine, I’ll get my coat.”

 

“No, no.  Won’t take but a moment.  You stay here and get some rest.”  He shoved his hands into his pockets again, like he was trying to hide them from me.  Were they shaking, like mine?  “I must go.  Goodnight, John.”  I watched him breeze down the stairs, leaving me more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.

 

~*~

 

Seems like he’s been gone hours.  Am exhausted and still can’t sleep.  Can’t stop the thoughts.  Is this what it’s like in Sherlock’s brain?  No wonder the poor sod doesn’t sleep.  He needs someone to chase away all that mind clutter so he can relax.  Just chase it away…perhaps with a kiss.

 

Must end this entry before I type something I’ll regret…

 

…like: bet he’s got the softest lips imaginable.

 

_~~*~~_

 

**Age: Old in body, young at heart?/  Cups of tea: 3 / Men seriously wanting to shoot today: 1 / Significant other: ???? / Chance of ending up old and grey and retired in country, unmarried and childless, with no one but SH in life: Very good…not such a bad idea, actually**

 

Turns out that our Miss Double F has struck before.  After an hour with Sherlock, she confessed to three other unsolved murders, both times in cahoots with adulterous men’s wives.  It was a banner day down at the Met, so much so that they’ve decided to throw a little congratulatory celebration down the local pub tonight.  Will go straightaway after leaving clinic.

 

On second thought, will stop at home to freshen up first.  Sherlock indicated he would come to this little thing, so…

 

Not that I want to look _good_ for him or anything.  Just thought I’d put on that green shirt he once said looked nice on me.

 

Leaving work now…

 

~*~

 

Oh.  Am reeling from what happened tonight.

 

Went down the pub expecting to have a few pints with Lestrade et al.  Walked in to a din of “Happy Birthday’s” all round.  I’d already forgotten.  After the humiliation following my dinner party two nights ago, I didn’t really want to remember.

 

Lestrade, Donovan, even Anderson were all there, as well as many of the Met officers we work with most of the time.  They even sang an abbreviated yet apparently earnest “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” at me.  Was actually a bit touched, especially when I saw Sherlock out of the corner of my eye, watching the goings-on with a less skeptical than usual face.  When he saw me he even smiled.  Oh God.

 

“How did you guys know?”

 

“I have my ways,” Lestrade answered, smiling.  “I am the police, after all.”

 

“Right, right.”  I was handed a pint and ceremoniously plopped down right next to Sherlock on a bench.  Before I could say anything I was presented with an large bran muffin with a single lit candle stuffed down the middle.

 

“Well, make a wish!” Lestrade demanded.  I tried to ignore Sherlock staring smugly at me when I blew the thing out.  It was a bit difficult.  Though the bench was spacious enough, his thigh was pressed urgently against mine the whole time.

 

“Bran muffin, eh?  Am I that old?”

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and stated quite loudly, “Yes, but at least you’ll be regular.”  For a second the entire pub went silent, and then everyone laughed…really laughed.  Sherlock looked down at his hands, but I could see the shy smile on his cheeks.  Pink cheeks.  He suddenly looked like the new kid on a playground who’d finally won over the other kids, and was so proud he could barely contain his pleasure.

 

Wanted suddenly to lean over and…no.  Mustn’t go there.

 

Once I gave a loud, “Cheers, everyone,” and took a cursory bite of the rock of a muffin, the lot moved away a bit, leaving me and Sherlock with a bit of privacy.  Which was fine with me.  More than fine.

 

“So, you must be in a good mood, with the solved cases and all.”  I sat the muffin on a nearby table, wiped a few stray crumbs off my hands, and turned to look at my flatmate full on.  “You didn’t even come home last night.”

 

“I assure you I was completely safe,” Sherlock proclaimed.  “In case you were…worried.”

 

“It’s my right to worry.  As your doctor, and your flatmate.  And your friend.”

 

I watched Sherlock’s cheeks go pink again when he asked, “Did you…worry…about Sebastian?”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s only been two days since you learned the truth about him.  It would be normal for you to harbour residual feelings—”

 

“Sherlock, listen.”  I was just about to suggest we go somewhere more private to talk when Donovan came over, tipsy with ale and post-closed case glee.

 

“Let me guess, Watson,” Donovan spurted as she sloshed her pint around.  “You wished for a sane flatmate, a proper girlfriend, and the EuroMillions jackpot.  Am I right?”

 

I cleared my throat, pressed my thigh harder against Sherlock’s.  “Not exactly."

 

“Just going for the money, then?” she pestered.

 

Sherlock leaned back, exaggeratedly stretched his arm across the seat behind me, and declared, “Not even necessary, Lieutenant Donovan.  I can attest that John is _perfectly_ well endowed…just as he is.”  If I’d been taking a sip I would have surely choked on it.  Donovan nearly did a spit take.

 

“Sherlock,” I whispered.

 

“I’m speaking of your tremendous medical acumen, of course.  That and your immeasurable font of all things _CSI_ , James Bond, and Spice Girls.  I’d be nowhere without him,” he explained, staring down Donovan until she limped away to guzzle down the rest of her pint. 

 

“What is with you today?  You’re being almost…sociable.”

 

He smiled.  “I am capable of faking it on special occasions.”

 

“Like breaking a string of unsolved murders all in one night?  That kind of special occasion?”

 

“Precisely.”  His smile grew brighter, and I went back to nibbling my muffin, so I wouldn’t get lost in it.

 

We sat in silence for a bit, sipping our pints but not really drinking.  It was enough just to watch everyone else celebrate.  Eventually the tension became too much.  I opened my mouth, but what needed to be said wouldn’t come.  So I stalled.

 

“Sherlock.  I know you don’t do birthdays and the like, so…thanks.  For this.”

 

“Thank Lestrade.  He bought you the muffin.”

 

“Ah.  So I shouldn’t expect a birthday present, then.”

 

To my shock, Sherlock cleared his throat, scratched his head and murmured, “Well, er…not at this moment.  But it should be coming along soon.”  He glanced at me and turned away again, but I could still see the small, self-satisfied grin on his lips.  Gorgeous lips.  Damn!  I took another swig; my mouth was suddenly dry.

 

“Wow.  I don’t know what to say, Sherlock.”

 

When he turned back to me he had that same look as he did last night, right before he said…what he said.  “Actually,” he murmured, leaning in closer, his voice falling so only I could hear, “if you really want to show your gratitude, perhaps you and I could—”

 

“Here you are!  Some fine host you are, Holmes, sitting over here while the rest of us go thirsty!”  It was Anderson, with as bad timing as ever.  “This whole thing was your idea, so the next round should be on you!”

 

Lestrade was with him, smiling like he knew all the secrets in the world.  “Sherlock Holmes buying a round for us lowly police?  Chance would be a fine thing.”

 

Sherlock, to my surprise, took a deep breath, shot to his feet, and headed for the bar.  “That’s two pints and…a glass of warm milk for you, Anderson?”  I watched him walk—no, saunter away from us.  From me.  He turned a bit halfway there and smiled at me.  A real smile.

 

If I thought anyone but me would ever read this, I wouldn’t type this: I felt my heart beat faster.

 

I must have been staring, because I saw Anderson waving a hand in front of my face out of the corner of my eye.

 

“What are you staring at, Watson?” Anderson whined.  “You look like one of those silly teenaged girls mooning over One Direction!”

 

Before I could respond, Lestrade poked Anderson and gave me a knowing grin.  “Let’s go get your milk, old boy.”  They shuffled through the crowd, and I was never so happy to have a moment’s peace.  I had to clear my head.  I had to figure out what was going on between self and flatmate.  Then I felt someone tap me sharply on the shoulder.

 

“John!  Thank God I found you!”

 

I turned around and almost dropped my pint.  Wearing an expensive suit, equally expensive shoes, and some fancy gold watch that probably cost more than I’ll ever make, was Sebastian Wilkes.

 

“If you know what’s good for you,” I spat, looking around briefly to see if Sherlock was watching, “then you’ll get the hell out of here right now.”

 

The bastard had the nerve to try to embrace me…until he saw what must have looked like raw fire in my eyes.  “John.  Please, you’ve got to let me explain.  It…it wasn’t my fault.  Moriarty was blackmailing me!  I am just as much a victim in this as you!” he spurted, sounding ever the pompous braggart that I took him for—that Sherlock knew he was—when I first met him in the bank.

 

“I can’t believe you’re actually saying this to me!  You do know this pub is filled with police, don’t you?”

 

“I don’t care!  I’ll tell them everything, if that’s what you want.”  He lowered his voice, whispering in that way that got me in the first place.  “It was an act at first, but…I had no idea I’d come to care for you, John.”  I wanted to laugh, but it came out more of a sarcastic gasp.  “I mean it, John.  I’d had some dirty dealings in my past, and Moriarty knew about all of them.  He was going to ruin me if I didn’t play along.  But then, once I started…once _we_ started—”

 

“Don’t,” I hissed, trying to push him away.  “I don’t trust you.”

 

“Please, just let me explain.”  Seb had the nerve to look affronted.  “Didn’t I mean anything to you?”

 

“How dare you?  After you tricked me into—damn it!”  I certainly didn’t want all and sundry to know that I’d been played for the fool, so I nodded toward the door.  “Out there.  You can tell me your tale of woe there and then let me be."  I led the way shaking my head, hoping to God we could sneak out undetected.  I couldn’t believe I was going with him, but I knew I couldn’t risk Sebastian being seen by—

 

“Sherlock, old boy!  Bringing us drinks just like in university, eh?”  My leg started to throb as soon as I turned around.  Sherlock was standing there, beers in hand, eyes moving from mine to Seb’s and then back.  I couldn’t tell if he was angry or…disappointed.  And then Seb started in again with, “Cheers for keeping John company, but I think your services are no longer required.”

 

“I was just going to talk to him outside,” I explained, my eyes on the floor.  “I didn’t know he was coming here.”

 

“Oh, don’t be so modest, John,” Sebastian proclaimed, rather loudly.  “You know I wouldn’t forget your birthday!  Not my good mate!”  He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me against him, more possessive than when I really was with him.  He peered at Sherlock, his nose up in the air, like that very first day at the bank.  “What do you say we bury the hatchet, Sherlock, old boy?  Join us for a drink before I whisk John away for his… _birthday present_?”

 

Sherlock smiled wickedly.  I could see something wonderful, sharp, and ball-crushing was forming on his perfect lips, but then he seemed to notice what I’d just noticed—everyone in the pub was watching us.  And he did something most unexpected—he held back.  He nodded curtly at Sebastian and me.

 

“Happy birthday, John.”  He smiled at me, that quick, fake smile usually reserved for suspicious witnesses and rude police officers, and he turned and slipped back into the crowd.  He was gone before I could stop him.  I glared at Sebastian as I shook off his unwelcome arm, but he was clueless as ever.

 

“Outside,” I grunted at him, limping to the door.  “Let’s get this over and done with.”

 

~*~

 

It was colder than I’d thought, but I wasn’t about to mention it, lest Seb try to offer me his coat…or worse.  I led him just off the sidewalk, out of direct view of anyone watching through the windows.

 

“Ok, let’s hear it,” I said, wincing at my damn leg.  “Why are you here?”

 

“Why do you think, John?  I want you back,” he whispered, leaning in close, not noticing or caring that I wasn’t receptive to his advances at all.  “I was weak, I know that.  Moriarty exploited that weakness.  He would have ruined my career, everything I’ve worked so hard to build, my entire life.  It was a terrible thing to do, I know that, but…I didn’t think I’d actually grow to…care.  And I do care, John.  More than you know.”

 

“Even if I believed you—and I’m not saying that I do—what about that ridiculous twink I found in your lap?”

 

“Gone, gone, gone!  Once I realized how I felt about you, I sent him packing!” Seb crowed as he ran his hands through his floppy public schoolboy hair—as if that were going to impress me.  What did I ever see in him?  “I was a fool, I admit it.  I will apologize a thousand million times!”

 

“That’s a start.”

 

“Right.”  He took a few steps away, looking at something through the pub window.  “Moriarty frightens me, John.  Not just because he threatened to ruin me, but…I want to help you catch him.  If there’s anything I can do…I don’t know if the police need my testimony, but…I’d willingly turn myself in,” he stated, turning to me, his face more sincere than I’d ever seen.  “If it means protecting you.  I’ll do anything, John.”

 

I searched his face, one I woke up next to more than once, and couldn’t find a hint of deceitfulness.  Was he being completely honest—finally?  “You want to help us catch Moriarty?”

 

“I want to protect you from Moriarty,” he said, coming at me suddenly and grabbing me by the shoulders.  “If there’s one good thing that came from this hellish mess, it’s that I got to meet you.”  He leaned closer, his eyes so sincere.  “That I got to…fall—”

 

“Unhand him, Wilkes!”  We both turned, mouths agape, to find Sherlock, feet planted, scarf and curls blowing in the cold air like a ninja about to strike.  _Ding dong!_

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Yes, you are quite sorry,” Sherlock replied as he started removing his leather gloves.  “And I suspect you’ve been sorry your entire life.  And you are about to become even more sorry.”  Gloves off, Sherlock removed his precious blue scarf, handed it to me, and stepped into Sebastian’s personal space.  “You were, and continue to be a miserable son of a bitch.  I should have done this years ago,” he growled.

 

Seb stood tall, chest out, and crossed his arms.  “Done what?”

 

“This!”  It happened so fast I barely registered Sherlock’s fist slamming into Sebastian’s face.  I only knew that it had really happened when Seb recovered, laughing gravely as he wiped a faint trickle of blood from his mouth.

 

“Oh!  Big mistake, Holmes.  I took up boxing in university!" Sebastian huffed as he put up his dukes.  “And I did quite well.”

 

“I’m terrified,” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.  “Really, I’m shaking in my sh—umpf!”  Sebastian dove at him, and then they were on the ground.

 

"Guys, guys…this is."  But I didn't know what _this_ was.  Two blokes that I cared about, struggling to get the better of one another, both of them obviously proficient in some type of combat sport or other…and all of it over me.

 

Me!!!

 

Where Seb tended to jab, Sherlock applied grappling.  Sherlock countered Seb's punches, but Sebastian evaded Sherlock's kicks.  It was dark, and they were making a right ruckus outside, but I couldn't quite bring myself to stop them.  Maybe I didn't want them to stop.

 

Before I knew it several people from the pub had come out to watch, Lestrade at the head of the pack.

 

"Shall I break this up?" he asked me, though I suspected from the smile on his face he had no intention of doing so.

 

"I don't quite know."  It was the truth.  I wanted to root for Sherlock, for protecting my honour.  But at the same time, I couldn’t quite blame Sebastian for hating Sherlock for what happened in university.  It was only when Sebastian was about to hit Sherlock with an oversized garbage bin lid that Lestrade finally shouted for them to stop or he'd arrest them both.

 

"All right, enough," Seb panted, tossing the lid aside as he caught his breath.

 

"Fine, enough," Sherlock grunted.  He ran a hand through his curls, spat a bit of blood on the ground—never saw him do that before!—and looked directly at me.  "John," he murmured with big, insecure eyes.  He turned his back on Sebastian, and started to move slowly toward me.

 

That's when Sebastian looked up, sniffed, and grunted, "Still a freak."

 

With only a second's hesitation, Sherlock's eyes went cold, and he swiftly turned to land an expert kick directly to Seb's solar plexus, knocking the wind and any lingering self respect from the man.  Sebastian fell to the ground, done.  Sherlock stood over him, shaking with anger.

 

"Great," Donovan squawked, "now he's killed someone right before our eyes!"

 

"He has not—Seb!"  I rushed over to where Sebastian was a heap on the concrete, just in the small chance that Sherlock really had killed him.  I checked him quickly, but Sherlock hadn't damaged him permanently.  If Sherlock had really wanted to hurt him, he could have.  Had he held back for my sake?

 

"J-John," Seb coughed, grabbing onto me, "darling—"

 

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Sherlock snapped.

 

"Hey, that's enough, Sherlock," I hissed at him.  "You didn't have to kick him like that, you know.  What's wrong with you?"

 

Sherlock looked baffled.  "What's wrong with _me_?"

 

"Just when I think you're…that we're…that I am getting through to that thick, inscrutable head of yours, you go and do something like this."  I lifted Sebastian's head into my lap to keep it off the hard ground.  Sherlock followed my movements and took a loud, sharp breath.

 

"I understand.  Finally."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

Sherlock dug his hands into his coat.  Gloveless, I could see how raw his knuckles were.  I wanted to—needed to—check him out, make sure he was ok, but then he backed away and mumbled, "I apologize, John.  I thought that we—that _you and I_ —nevermind.  I was wrong.  My mistake.”

 

"Sherlock, wait."  But he was gone, disappearing into the crowd before I could tell him to stop, before I could return his scarf.  I wrapped it around my own neck for safekeeping.

 

"Ok, show's over, folks," Lestrade ordered, waving the crowd back into the pub.  God bless him.  When we were alone, I rubbed Seb's forehead.

 

"C'mon, Seb.  Let's get you up."  He huffed and puffed as I got him to his feet, but I could tell it was for my benefit.  "Are you ok?"

 

Sebastian stumbled forward, and I grabbed his waist to keep him from tumbling over again.  He flipped the hair out of his eyes and wrapped a firm arm around my shoulders.  "I'm all right now…that you're back."  He leaned forward, would have kissed me if I hadn't pushed him away.  "Ok, what's the problem now?" he exclaimed, loud and sure-footed.  Right.

 

"I am not _back_ , Seb.  Look, I appreciate that Moriarty was blackmailing you, but that’s still no excuse for what you did to me.  I can't believe a word you say anymore.”

 

He actually had the audacity to look surprised.  "Don't be so naïve.  We were good together, John.  We can be good together again.  You…me…your little tight trousers."

 

I shook my head at his arrogant grin.  Is that how he'd gotten to me so easily, just with compliments?

 

"Come now, John.  Don't you think you deserve someone being good to you…for a change?"

 

Damn him.  "I don't—I can't trust you," I told him, though the part of me that liked being romanced was wavering.  "I need someone I can trust."

 

Sebastian limped toward me, peering down at me seriously.  "Really.  Can you truly, completely trust anyone?"

 

I didn't have to think; my body answered for me.

 

"Goodbye, Sebastian."  I was off to find a cab, my limp suddenly gone.

 

~*~

 

I'd just been ignored by the fourth taxi in a row when an expensive, dark car pulled up to me.  I wasn't in the mood for Mycroft's games, but seeing as I couldn't get a cab—does he control that, too?

 

"Hello, John," Mycroft said wearily, like he'd already had a round or two with his brother.  "Do get in.  We wouldn't want you to catch cold on your birthday, would we?"

 

"Mycroft."  Once I was sitting across from him and the car was moving, he handed me a manila envelope.  "What's this?"

 

"Your birthday present," Mycroft replied with a wry smile.  "I do apologize for being late for your little…fete…but there was a situation in Central—well, we'll just leave it at that, shall we?"

 

"Fine, thank you."  I glanced at the papers inside—court papers with my name mentioned several times.  "What is this?  I don't understand."

 

Mycroft drummed his fingers on his crossed legs amusedly.  "You, Dr. John Watson, have officially returned to the status of non-offender.  Have you forgotten the events last year involving you, spray paint, and some rather odd graffiti?"

 

"The ASBO?  Have you had my ASBO repealed?"

 

"Your record has been wiped clean of any and all wrongdoing.  You are now free to carry spray paint cans in Greater London after 11 AM again.  Congratulations."

 

"Wow.  Cheers, mate."  I flipped through the file quickly; as relieved as I was to get that ridiculous ASBO taken off my record, it wasn't exactly at the forefront of my thoughts.  "I don't suppose you've, er, heard from your brother tonight, have you?"

 

"Not since he texted me this morning requesting that little piece of business," Mycroft sighed, nodding toward the papers in my lap.  "Your case wasn't a felony, of course, but getting the paperwork was still a rather tedious process.  I had to send someone all the way to the Criminal Records Bureau in Liverpool to get the file, and then there was the fiasco at the Diogenes when Sir Godfrey had the audacity to sneeze—"

 

"Wait—Sherlock asked you to do this for me?  This wasn't you?"

 

"It was his idea entirely."  The condescending smile suddenly left Mycroft's face.  "I must admit I was a bit shocked.  Sherlock has never given a birthday present in his life, and here he is requesting one for his flatmate—his _friend_ —who has of late taken to consorting with the likes of Sebastian Wilkes."

 

My jaw must have dropped.  "Excuse me?"

 

"Tell me, John: were you keeping company with the man simply to anger my brother, or were you trying to make him jealous?"  I was flabbergasted.  I couldn't speak, not even when Mycroft leaned closer and whispered, "Or…did you just get tired of waiting?"

 

"Waiting for…what?"

 

Mycroft smiled at me like the first time we met, when he wanted to know what my intentions were with Sherlock.  "You two can continue playing this game of denial, but I'm beginning to find it rather tedious.  So, am I correct in assuming you want Mr. Wilkes left untouched, due to your…lingering regard for him?  I doubt Moriarty will be in contact with him again, but after a few days of interrogation, we may find that he's retained some valuable information within his diminutive brain."

 

"Ok, first of all, there is no 'lingering regard' for Sebastian!" I snapped.

 

"Excellent!  I'll have him arrested immediately," Mycroft said as he took out his mobile.  "Do you think my brother would prefer to have Mr. Wilkes incarcerated, stripped of all his assets, or simply deported?"

 

"Hang on.  Why would you do this?"

 

"Well, in addition to his fraternization with a known criminal mastermind, I think we could quite successfully charge him with assault on my brother.  Metal garbage pail lids—so unsportsmanlike."

 

I rubbed my eyes.  "I'm not even going to ask how you knew about that.  Look, I know Seb made a huge mistake, and I'm not making excuses for what he did to me, but this thing between him and Sherlock—you have to admit that Sebastian has good reason to hate your brother."

 

Mycroft cocked his head, like he'd just heard some alien language.  "And what reason would that be?"

 

"You know very well the reason," I said, crossing my arms.  "Because Seb found Sherlock and his own girlfriend going at it like rabbits in a university lab, they knocked something over, caused a fire, and the girlfriend got kicked out while Sherlock talked his way out of it."

 

Mycroft's eyebrows crept up to insurmountable heights.  "Interesting.  What an amusing fiction."

 

My arms fell to my sides, my mouth went dry, and it was catching Seb and the twink all over again.  "You mean…that's not what happened?"

 

"I can't say I know all the facts of my brother's intimate past, but I do find it rather out of character for Sherlock to be…' _at it like rabbits'_ …when there are highly incendiary materials in the vicinity to draw his interest, don't you?"

 

"But—Seb said what Sherlock did broke his heart!"

 

Mycroft gave me a look that I've come to recognize so well from his brother—moron.  "I can attest that what my brother did was to allow Mr. Wilkes and his cohorts to befriend him—or pretend to—long enough to gain his trust, along with access to the university's extensive chemistry labs in off hours.  In his naïveté, my brother assumed Wilkes et al. were simply doing their coursework, when instead they were using the labs and my brother's vast knowledge of chemistry to manufacture and sell pharmaceutical-grade MDMA.  I believe the young people call it ecstasy."

 

Felt like head was going to implode.  How could I have been so stupid?

 

"The girlfriend to whom you were referring was, in fact, one of Mr. Wilkes co-conspirators, whose job it was to…distract…my brother away from the labs whilst her paramour removed the illicit material from Sherlock's workstation.  She failed, and my brother arrived at the lab to find that the person he thought was his friend had used him.  There was an encounter, nothing violent, but I do believe a test tube or beaker may have been smashed.  No explosion, but the university security forces were alerted, and as it was Sherlock's workstation, he was assumed to be the culprit."

 

My throat was so dry by then, I could barely hiss, "And then?"

 

Mycroft cleared his throat.  "Mr. Wilkes used his powers of persuasion to convince the authorities of his innocence.  Sherlock was not so lucky.  I was able to save him from any criminal charges, but…"  Mycroft turned away, like he was imparting some shameful family secret.  "In the end, Sherlock was sent down.  We could have gotten him placed elsewhere, of course, but he wouldn't hear of it.  Once he no longer had classes to attend, he chose to fill his free time by developing a drug habit of his own.  Awful, don't you think?"

 

"My God.  I had no…why didn't Sherlock tell me?"

 

"Would it have mattered?"

 

"Of course it would have mattered!  I never would have gotten mixed up with that bastard if I'd known what he did to—Sherlock must hate me for this!"  I rubbed the anger and embarrassment from my face.  "Do you think he'll ever forgive me?"

 

Mycroft smiled ruefully at me.  "My brother's capacity to forgive has always been, in my experience, next to nil.  But when it comes down to you, Dr. Watson, we both know that you are always the exception."

 

"Right."  My heart started thumping, the way it did the first time I followed Sherlock through darkened London streets, and found my calling.  I took out my mobile.  "I need to speak to him."

 

"I think you'll find he won't answer," Mycroft sighed, clearly bored with this, my and Sherlock's never-ending drama.  "Perhaps try a text.  You know he prefers it."

 

"Yes, well, can you drop me home, please?" I hissed as I fumbled with the slide-out keyboard.  Once I had a new text message open, though, I was stumped.  What to say?

 

"Just tell him what's in your heart," Mycroft pronounced just as the car pulled up outside 221 Baker Street.  "On second thought, tell him what he wants to hear.  That may have the desired effect."

 

"Yes.  Right.  Well, er, thank you, Mycroft."  I stumbled out of the car and just stared up at our flat.  I thought about what I wanted to say, what I needed to say to make Sherlock want the same thing I wanted.  I texted it as soon as it came to me: _I like U just the way U R!_

 

"Goodness. You want to seduce my brother or send him into a tantrum?  Grammar, Dr. Watson!"

 

Laughing, I pressed send and bounded up the front steps.

 

~*~

 

I called for him all the way up the stairs, probably making a terrible racket, but couldn't bring self to care.  Needed to talk to him…see him.  Wasn't even sure what was planning to say right then, but needed to say it nonetheless.  Knew it wouldn't be easy, but still didn't expect it to be quite so difficult.

 

"Sherlock, where are you?"  I checked the bathroom, my bedroom, even the closet before I would allow myself to go to his bedroom, afraid of what I'd find.  What I found was Mrs. Hudson.

 

"He's gone, John," she said, looking as sad as I felt just then.  "He rushed in, grabbed some clothes, his computer, one of his experiments, and flew out the door.  Said he had a case abroad and didn't know when he'd be back.  And he left this."  She came to me and laid Sherlock's mobile in my shaking hand.  "I'm sorry, love."  She left me there, staring down at the screen flashing "new message."  Gutted.

 

"But it's so cold out," I said to the empty flat, "and he hasn't got his scarf."

 

Knew then and there that I was completely, utterly, and devastatingly gone for him.  Scarier than Afghanistan.

 

_~~*~~_

 

**Age: So old / Career: Sulking / Cheating ex-whatever’s beaten to bloody pulp in front of eyes: 1—well done, SH! / Arguments with SH over his crazy violin playing in the wee hours: 0 / Nightmares about SH running off with Jude Law: 2 / Nights spent wrapped up in blue scarf so can fall asleep to SH's scent: 2 / Chances of ending up spinster: Frightfully good / Chances of ending up in hospital or morgue today with SH: 0, as he’s not here.**

**Hearts broken: just 1**

 

Two days since Sherlock left.  He hasn't called or texted.  How could he have left his mobile?  He takes it into the bath with him!  Once after a particularly long night out and a few scuffles with some very large blokes, he'd gone for a long, hot soak and texted me in my room to come scrub his back for him! 

 

Wish I'd done it, now.  Could have caught a glimpse of him starkers.  May never get the chance now.

 

God, I miss him. 

 

For two days have gone to clinic, come home, had tea, watched telly, gone to bed.  Boring, boring, boring.  Much like life before Sherlock.

 

It's insufferable.  Don’t want to go back to life Before Sherlock.  Must get him back.  But how?

 

Think will go have a pint with Mike Stamford.  That will help.

 

ETA Later:

Nah, didn't help.  Will have a hot totty and think sommore.  S'cold outside.

 

ETAA  Laterr:

Why Selock not lov me?  Bloddy arse tnaking mobilfhone…dammiitt.

 

 

**ETA NOW:**

 

Oh no!  Have just woken up from laptop with splitting headache only to see the results of my drunkenness right on the front of my public blog:

 

_"Lov tobakko ash soolursistum stooped cumhomSlock 221Bme allnitelonggggggg"_

 

Oh, God no!

 

**Age: 95, surely / Drinks: Never again / Time spent deleting drunken blog post and reading through 105 comments laughing at me: hours / Calls and texts from Harry, Lestrade, and Stamford avoided: 15 / Chances of dying alone, half eaten by Alsatian, no SH, no anyone: Very high / Word from SH: none.**

 

Luckily wasn't on call for clinic today, as have slept in due to massive hangover.

 

Have been lazing about the flat all day in robe and slippers.  Will go have a sulk on the couch.  There's a dip in it where a long, lean body has been.  Should be.

 

Had a nice, long nap on Sher—on the couch.  Now it's dark.  And it's snowing, of all things.  Wouldn't mind getting takeaway from Angelo's tonight, but it seems so wrong on my own.  Never even took any dates there.  Angelo's always felt like our place.

 

Who am I kidding?  All of London was our place.

 

Is.  Was?  Might should get dressed properly and see about getting some food.  Oh, I hear the front door opening—maybe Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind having dinner with me…

 

 

 

 

**Later…**

 

Wow.

 

This is what happened…

 

Was just coming to door, saying, "Mrs. Hudson, how about we go out, after I put on a pair of trousers?" as it opened.

 

Was not Mrs. Hudson at all.

 

"As much as I do like to observe your arse in trousers," Sherlock growled lowly at me as he stepped inside—and damn if he didn't look amazing covered in snowflakes—"I think I will prefer you _out_ of them."

 

"W-what are you…where've you been?" I asked, trying to sound calm, when all I wanted to do was squeal.

 

"Nowhere special," he replied before taking a large, heavy step in my direction.  "Nice blog post, by the way.  I'm surprised none of your faithful readers inquired if you weren't in fact having a convulsion."

 

"Oh…I didn't—I mean, I _did_ mean it, but…uh, I'm an idiot."

 

"Yes, of course you are," he sighed.  Always, always, always the arrogant sod.  "But that's quite all right, John.  I'm used to it.  I'm rather fond of it."  He took another step, this one less assured.  "Of you, really."

 

 _My_ arrogant sod…?

 

My left hand started trembling like it needed something to grab and never release.  "Oh.  But you went away.  Are you back for good?"

 

Sherlock smiled shyly.  "I came home because I…er…forgot something."

 

I smiled up at him, not so shyly, and closed the distance between us.  "What might that be?"

 

I could feel his breath on my face; that's how close we were when—

 

"Oh!  Look at you two!  I knew it!  I knew you'd come round!" Mrs. Hudson chirped from the hallway, effectively ending what looked like was going to be a very nice first kiss!  I wanted to crumple to the floor, but Sherlock merely smiled as he ushered Mrs. Hudson away with a dismissive flick of his hand.

 

"Yes, that will be all.  Give our regards to Mrs. Turner," he bellowed as he shut the door.  Wanted to run at him again, but he seemed to have lost interest in our interrupted snog and instead began gathering up my coat and gloves.

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"Getting ready to brave the snow.  Get dressed, John.  You can't go to Angelo's in just your robe!"

 

"Angelo's?"

 

"You obviously have had nothing to eat today but tea and dry toast.  You feel good now but your blood sugar is about to drop in fifteen, no, ten minutes, and the last vestiges of your alcoholic binge last night continue to linger.  You're hungry, John."

 

Realized he was right.  My stomach had been growling all day, but was too tired and depressed to bother.  "Still amazing, that."

 

Sherlock looked genuinely pleased right then, and it took all my frazzled willpower not to launch myself on him.  "I thought Angelo's would be the most appropriate place to take you for your belated birthday dinner, seeing as how it was the setting of our first…"  His cheeks suddenly went pink as he came toward me again, fiddling nervously with my gloves.  "Was that an accurate assumption?" he whispered.

 

"Brilliant deduction."  The shy smile returned.  I wanted to kiss it so badly, but also wanted to get to our first—second—date!  "Ok, let me get dressed, I'll be down in a minute, just…don't leave and…just stay here and…just…I'll be right down!"  I bounced up the stairs like the limp never existed.

 

Was one leg into the first pair of trousers I came to before realized that they were _those_ trousers—the ones Sebastian Wilkes fancied so much.  Not sure if Sherlock would mind at all, but I would.  Must remind self to donate said trousers to charity.

 

Unfortunately, those trousers did make my arse look quite good.  And in the effort to find a suitable alternative, ended up taking a bit too long to dress.  And then there was finding the right jumper.  And then couldn't find right socks.  And then once I thought I had it together, realized chosen ensemble made me look like an oversized Hobbit, so had to tear it all off and start again.

 

Had just gotten head into favorite jumper—soft and oatmeal—when I heard the front door slam.

 

"Sherlock?  Sherlock?" Half-dressed and completely confused, I tiptoed downstairs just in time to catch a glimpse out the window of Sherlock stomping determinedly down the front steps and onto Baker Street.  "What—did I _not_ just say to stay here?  What just happened?"

 

Wanted to tear my hair out.  Looked round the room to see if perhaps Mycroft had shown up…or Moriarty, for that matter.  What else could have made Sherlock leave at that moment?

 

Then I saw just what it was out of the corner of my eye: my laptop on the kitchen table, and on the screen was this, my secret, private, not ever to be seen by anyone else Livejournal.  And the entry that Sherlock chose to look at when snooping through my private Livejournal (which I'd stupidly left open on my laptop) was the one that ended like this:

 

 

 

> _Arrogant, cruel, not-knowing-about-solar-system, condescending, rude, snobby…wanker!_
> 
> _Know a person is not supposed to hate anyone, but right now it can not be helped._
> 
> **_I hate Sherlock Holmes.  I hate him! HATE HIM!_ **

****

"Right."  Something clicked just then.  Was not about to let this man walk away from me again.  So I did what any reasonable army doctor would do—I ran down the steps onto the front porch to yell for my man.  "Sher—shit!"  Could not run after him with frostbitten feet, so raced back up to the flat for my trainers.  Threw them on and was racing back downstairs again when Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of her door.

 

"My goodness, John!" she gasped as I passed her. "You've forgot your trousers!"

 

"Not to worry!  I'm a doctor!" I shouted as I followed Sherlock's footsteps.  Not that I'd need the snow to help.  I'd know his footsteps anywhere.

 

It was dark but not very late, so there were still several people on the streets, all of whom stopped to stare at the silly, idiotic, lovestruck doctor jogging down the street in a wooly jumper and blue plaid boxer briefs.  I simply waved at them and carried on.  I barely felt the cold at all.

 

I tracked him down several streets—he was moving fast!—and around two corners, and I thought I had him, but had to slow down to wipe the snow from my face.  When I rounded another corner, well in the midst of shops and bewildered onlookers, I suddenly realized that he'd disappeared.

 

"Sherlock?"  I turned around and around, yelling his name against the traffic noise and snow.  I'd lost him.  Again.  I looked up at the sky, shaking my head at this, my life.  "Please."

 

"I know I said I wanted you out of your trousers, but couldn't you have waited just a bit?"  I turned around and there he was, coming out of the department store directly in front of me.  "I like your pants, John.  Interesting shade of blue.  Sort of like my robe, don't you think?"

 

"I'm sorry!" I sputtered, suddenly aware of my state of undress, of the strangers staring at us, at Sherlock's haunting eyes looking me over, and of what, hopefully, would come later…if I didn't fuck everything up.  "I didn't mean all those terrible things I said about you!"

 

"Yes, you did, John.  And I can't blame you, because it's all true."  Sherlock hissed at a few little ladies watching, and they stumbled away.  "You see?  I am selfish, rude, arrogant—"

 

"And the most amazing, brilliant person I've ever met.  And the most forgiving…I hope."  Sherlock came closer, his hands behind his back.  "I'm sorry about everything…about Sebastian.  You warned me, and I should have listened.  But he lied to me; he told me that you'd stolen his girlfriend in university, ruining her life and your friendship.  But Mycroft explained what really happened—that that bastard broke your heart."

 

Sherlock sniffed haughtily.  "Well, if you insist on being idiomatic, then yes, Sebastian's deceit stung at the time.  But it was nothing compared to what he did to you, John.  For that I will never forgive him."

 

"Sherlock."

 

"I went away because I thought…after the incident at the pub—"

 

"Where you kicked his arse, rightfully so."

 

Sherlock smiled proudly.  "Yes.  But I thought…you seemed at that point to have chosen…that you'd made your decision to return to him."

 

I came closer, almost touching him.  "No, not again, not ever.  I can't believe I ever gave him the slightest notice, not with you around."

 

The smile fell from Sherlock's face.  "Then why did you?"

 

I shrugged.  Couldn't remember for the life of me what I saw in Sebastian Wilkes all those weeks ago.  "I think I liked him because he liked me…or so I thought.  Do you know how that feels, Sherlock?  To want someone to like you?  To want someone to _love_ you?"

 

He came close enough to run a trembling, gloved hand through my snow-damp hair.  "Yes, John.  I know."

 

_Ding dong!_

 

"It was you all along," I told him as he wrapped me in his coat.  His cheeks burned as I pulled myself in, but before I could kiss him he showed me what he'd purchased in the shop—a gorgeous leather-bound journal, fastened with a heavy lock, with only one key.

 

"Not that the lock will keep me out for very long," he growled huskily at me.  "But I do promise to _try_ to keep my hands off your…diary."

 

And then we kissed.  It was soft and shy for only a moment.  And then I was shivering all over.  Tried to pretend it was from the cold, but never was warmer in my life than when I was within Sherlock's arms, his great coat, his kiss.  Was half naked and swooning in the middle of a snowstorm in London.  Was complete bliss.

 

I pulled him down into a hug, and that's when he whispered against my cheek, "You like me just as I am.  Thank you."

 

I chuckled, so I wouldn't melt right there.  "Did you read my entire Livejournal in the 60 seconds that I was upstairs?"

 

He was barely able to contain a dramatic roll of the eye.  "Come now, John.  I knew about that ridiculous secret online journal the day you created it.  I figured out your username and password within minutes, of course.  But I appreciated your futile attempt at privacy, so I stayed away.  Can't speak for Mycroft, though."

 

"Oh…no."

 

"Don't worry, John.  I understand you left out all truly graphic details of your…dalliance with Wilkes.  Thank you."

 

"So, what should I write in my new diary about us?  Shall I be…er…graphic?"  I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.  All over, really.  It was cold and wet out and Sherlock was warmth and comfort and love and he was mine.  Finally.  Couldn't wait any longer.  "Take me home, eh?"

 

"As you wish."  This time he kissed me hard, possessively, and it was all I could do to keep my feet on the ground.  Felt like he was trying to devour me.  Oh, God.  This was all HOURS ago, and when I think about it I still get...ok, must finish writing this down now!

 

He finally let me go when the people around us started clapping.  Thought he'd say something snarky, but he kept schtum, only rubbed his nose against mine for a while before pulling me back for another demanding, deep kiss.  Don't think I ever tasted anything as good as his tongue in my mouth.

 

Never wanted anything more in my life than him.

 

"Wait a minute," I gasped, once I had air to breathe.  "Consulting detectives don't kiss like that."

 

He smirked.  "Oh yes, I fucking do."

 

And then we dashed home.  And he took me to Angelo's for dinner…3 hours later.

 

Life is very, very good.

 

_~~*~~_

 

**Date: Sun shining…and still snowing**

**Age: Young at heart**

**Career: BAMF+1**

**Cups of tea: 2…so far?**

**Jumpers: 0, as well as other clothes**

**Arguments with Sherlock over which side of bed will be his: 1**

**Nightmares: 0**

**Significant other: The most significant**

**Chance of ending up in bed or under kitchen table today with one Sherlock Holmes: 100%**


End file.
